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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685987">Little Garden of Terrors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatsongs/pseuds/goatsongs'>goatsongs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Basically all the CW from 171, Body Horror, Body Image, Existentialism, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mentions of dysmorphia, Mortality, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, he just loves his lil garden, i just love this big fleshy boy, jared hopworth call me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:47:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685987</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatsongs/pseuds/goatsongs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively: ‘A short reflection on the life and heart(s) of Jared Hopworth, Avatar of the Flesh, Avid Collector and Dedicated Gardener’</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Little Garden of Terrors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The landscape around the garden was barren and hot, heat rippling the air as it rose to the sky, scorching and yellow in the sunlight. Of course, it wasn’t sunlight, Jared Hopworth knew, but before being forced into dingy basements, cold warehouse rooms and endless corridors, he remembered what sunlight felt like against his measly, pale, sad excuse for a body. And he remembered it felt nice, in the same way that he remembered he felt weak and worthless. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>Now the only sun that burned, burning brighter against his taut and immense muscles, was the Watcher’s eye, blinking in the far distance toward the east of his small home. So many things were different now, so many things had changed from his previous life, and if he hadn’t had his body to account for, he knew it would have been a meaningless existence of pain and suffering, caused to him and by him in an endless cycle. But, fortunately, painful memories were not all that he had collected over the years. He had a body made of bodies, could feel his hearts pumping blood into veins stretched too long and almost bursting, beating at irregular speeds so that his rippling pulse left no silence within him to enjoy. Moving felt colossal, every step was the step of hundreds of souls, his bones aching and vibrating with every clenched fist and stretched finger, every twisted spine of those imperfect bodies he’d collected so carelessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Collected. That was the perfect word. A word of grace, of care, of passion and love. When he’d been young and inexperienced as he had been when he first placed his hand on that book, he’d fallen into the horrible mistake of hoarding. Taking everything that could be taken, every brittle bone and every hated flap of flesh he could turn his stupid and hungry gaze upon, he would take. And it had not been difficult. Humans were very funny beings like that, plagued by shame and embarrassment and impaired by issues of morality, mortality, meaning. As if any of that mattered. Impaired by worries so much deeper than the outer layer they’d project their pain on. It is easy to collect hated body parts when humans are fed the lie that their canvas of skin means something. When humans are fed the lie that a beautiful body may fix the wretchedness within, which they try to escape with such compulsion, fear and dread until they can’t anymore, or until their bodies rot along with their hearts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But slowly, Jared had learned to be picky. Choose not victims that simply hated their reflection and needed to shed or grow a few good bones and fat, but victims who would put care and drive into it, dedicating their lives to it. Straight backs, tendons pulled taut and upright by fear and need, muscles and bones of incredible value crushed by a life of exertion,  the ballet dancer. Immense shoulders, violence and frustration coursing through bodies drowning in oil and self-hatred, begging to grow just to feel closer to others, just to avoid feeling alone, the wrestler. Mangled toes and brains, eyes turned every which way, stomachs reeled in, tall jutting cheekbones, legs long and naked, beauty stripped of all humanity, the model. </span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>And each victim he remembered now grew in his garden, he could point at each one. Name them, though names didn’t matter much, not anymore. Not until the rib belonging to his executioner, the proclaimed shepherd of fears, the Watcher’s vigilante would start aching, and then he could count his last days, and tend to every beautiful flower for as long as time would allow him. And when the days were over, he would be no more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He liked his little garden of terrors. He liked the flowers, and the low lamenting groans of the pain that grew from. He liked the birds and he liked the endless dry day. So there he sat, by his small groaning cottage and fence all around it, and he would close his eyes and breathe it all in. His own garden of terrors. Home at last. Completely alone with the gruesome result of his many hearts and his loving hands. Jared realised, with a steadying breath in each of his lungs, that he did not need anything more. Finally, he found he did not want. His collection was complete. He was, finally, complete. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he knew the End would come for him, and when it did, he would embrace it with his many arms. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i just think he's neat :) </p><p>thank you to my beta Oscar, you can find him at <a href="https://twitter.com/oscarlovesthsea">@oscarlovesthesea</a></p><p>find me on twitter @archivemothman (edit) currently very much screaming about how much i love this big guy! and other podcast stuff </p><p>comment if u like!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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